Colors
by 898700
Summary: He could run run run and get out of this stupid place and be in his shoe-box-tiny but safe department, but he's not stupid. Not when he's Wally, anyway. Or when he's Flash, either, because being stupid is not the same than acting stupid, and to be honest he acts stupid as both of them.
1. Ocean, Shadows, Eyes

AN: A hundred years ago (actually, on May 2009), the next writing exercise was posted at the Superhero Muses community at LiveJournal. I wrote the first five parts of this, then spent the next seven years adding bits and pieces to it. Currently at ~16K words and still a WIP, its working title was Black + Blue = Red.

_Write an exercise in which you repeatedly use two different colors. Describe these colors without naming them too often-and try to find effective synonyms for the colors without being too obvious about this disguise. How would two colors, appearing over and over again in different forms, affect the reaction of the reader?_

* * *

><p><strong>01 [ Blue | ocean, cloudless, superhero ]<strong>

He slows down a little. More than just a little, actually - but compared to what he has to slow down for others it is nothing, relatively speaking. He thinks about counting seconds, but they are long long looooong, so he counts picoseconds instead. Then a blur flies by him, a sonic boom signaling the barrier of sound has been broken, and he grins. It's early in the morning, the sky is cloudless and they've agreed on a route exclusively over deep sea. He taps on the Speed Force, keeping a healthy distance from his self-imposed limits, but still, it is _freedom_, and as it pulses through his body he feels _alive_.

He has no problem whatsoever catching up with, then surpassing, the blue costumed superhero.

* * *

><p><strong>02 [ Black | shadows, fear, crime ]<strong>

It's dark outside, and Wally is usually not afraid of darkness, but that's part of the problem: he's Wally right now. It's late at night and he's been working non-stop for almost forty six hours, yet no complain has come out of his mouth all this time. Jokes, yes, plenty of them. Carefully constructed smartass one-lines that leave him open for taunting.

And he's been taunted. And it's been helpful. And now -

There's something in the shadows. He almost jumps, but doesn't. Immediate reaction is something he has painfully worked himself out of, when he's Wally. It makes being the Flash more incredibly liberating than anybody cares to know, but when you naturally move as fast as he does, being _normal_ is no normal at all.

It is late, it is dark, and most of the public lights in his path are broken or burnt, he doesn't know. He'll definitely ask the Mayor for a box of light bulbs next morning, have them fixed in the blink of an eye. But there's tomorrow and there's right now, and right now he's seriously crept out. He could run run run and get out of this stupid place and be in his shoe-box-tiny but safe department, but he's not stupid.

Not when he's Wally, anyway. Or when he's Flash, either, because being stupid is not the same than acting stupid, and to be honest he acts stupid as both of them. Because, well, he's both of them, isn't he? But he's not -

Hell. There's definitely something hiding behind the corners, and Wally knows he's being an idiot; he's a superhero, for god's sake. But he's also Wally, and Wally is a forensic scientist that has been working non-stop around heavily burnt bodies for way too many hours, and as a police scientist he ought to be used to work with bodily substances and byproducts of gruesome crimes, but.

Too much, it's too much, and if he's going to be stupid at least he can be stupid without giving away his secret, so he pulls out one of his lifelines.

"Are you still at the Station?" he asks as soon as the call is answered, his voice not low enough to be called a whisper. But still.

_"Just leaving. Did you change your mind?"_

Wally snickers. The sound's not nice.

"Yeah. Kind of. Could you pick me up? I'm like, eight blocks to the north?"

_"Jesus, Wally. Are you insane? Wait for me. Try not to get killed."_

Wally looks at the screen, squinting at its brightness. Three minutes to three a.m. Eighty three percent of the incidents happened between midnight and five in the morning, ninety seven percent of the victims were males, all of them police officers. He's not an officer, not really, and the psycho was captured by Flash and Batman ten hours ago, thankfully before Agent Williams suffered more than an awful scare.

He shouldn't fear darkness. But still.

* * *

><p><strong>03 [ Blue | eyes, tropical storm, spandex ]<strong>

"I don't care what he thinks."

Flash smiles. He and Supergirl have a thing going on, but that thing is called friendship. She's too cute, her baby blues match nicely with the mostly blue side of the planet peaking behind her back, yet she's not for him.

"Of course you do. He'll become Lord-y when he knows."

She rolls her eyes and he gives her his brightest grin. Tropical storm Henri hasn't dissipated yet; he'll surely remain on duty call the next three days.

"No, I don't. And he won't kill you; you know why."

He runs around her ten times before she realizes what's going on, ruffles her hair just because he can, and then she has him pinned against the huge window span with one hand. She's not really angry: her eyes are still the color of her uniform, not shining with laser warnings. She looks even cuter with a frown in her face and her hair a pigeon's nest, but he doesn't laugh, choosing to use one of his sheepish smiles instead.

"You're only inviting me out to piss him off," he insists. They both know it is true, so it doesn't really matter when she doesn't agree with him out loud.

"I'll introduce you to Nightwing and Oracle's civil identities," she says, raising a pretty eyebrow. _So _you_ can piss off Batman_, he hears between lines. Now, that's something.

She leaves after that, not waiting for his answer, with a mischievous smile that announces quite clearly that she knows she has him.

_And she does, in a way_, Flash thinks, while sparing one last look to the clouds, wind and water's potentially deadly mix down in Earth.


	2. Cave, Mountain, Villain

**04 [ Black | cave, gloom, paranoid ]**

"Where were you on Tuesday?" Batman doesn't look around but Flash knows his question didn't go unnoticed. "Like, at three in the morning?"

Flash knows he can't force an answer out of the Bat, so he waits while looking at their surroundings. The Batcave has changed a bit since he was last there, but it still is a dark, humid place. Bread would mold in less than a night if left here, Flash is ready to bet.

"You were not on League business," he continues, leaning on the console and crossing his arms and then generally not moving, and all but yelling _look at me, this is serious _with his posture. "And I know you weren't on Bats-y business at Gotham, either."

Batman finally reacts at the last quip, rising up and turning around in one fluid movement, and Flash gets the impression that the man's cape is made of gloom, the way it moves and pools and almost completely conceals its owner in darkness. It doesn't reflect the light as the body armor does, but rather seems to absorb it.

Flash shivers. Batman notices. Flash knows this because the anger is now coated with a dim streak of curiosity, and how cool is it that Flash came here prepared to put all this mess in the open, because otherwise he would have had it painfully spooned out anyway.

"Wayne Enterprise's annual party," the Dark Knight says, and Flash feels stupid. He messed up with Mr. Terrific's computer files and spent three hours carefully retrieving information from Barbara without making her suspicious, yet he forgot to look at Gotham's social news?

He's made an idiot of himself in front of one of his childhood heroes, but at least now he's certain. There have to be pictures of playboy Bruce Wayne with some supermodel or the other hanging from his arm until early in the morning. Yet although he's glad Bats isn't his stalker, now the options are way too scary to consider. Or, well, there's him being paranoid, whichever works better.

"_Flash_."

But of course, he's not the only one with monsters lurking in shadows, imaginary or otherwise.

"I think somebody's been following me, _civil persona_ me, around," he says, not bothering to downplay it because, well. This is Batman. "And before you ask, no, I have no proof. Which is why I thought it might be you."

There's something like anger in the other man's stoically grim face, or at least what the cowl allows to be seen. Flash thinks it might be what passes for concern when the Dark Knight is involved, but that might be just his own deluded mind.

Then the moment passes and Batman returns to his seat and to his computer with nothing more than a sharp nod in his direction. Flash knows that, although he's being dismissed, his problem is not. Many hours, many nights will be used while Batman researches and taps into his sources, trying to bring some light into this one last mystery. He'll definitely visit Central before the week is gone, a notion that should make Flash feel better.

It does not.

* * *

><p><strong>05 [ Blue | mountain, snow, ice ]<strong>

"- it beats the Everest any day, I'd say."

Wally smiles, paying to Dick's inebriated ramblings only enough attention to be amused by them. The guy seriously is a lightweight, not that Wally is any better. But at least he has his metabolism working for him, and although he already acted stupid earlier, at least now his mind is clean and sharp again. _Mostly_, he thinks, snorting into his apple cider and internally giggling at the idea of getting drunk on warm beverages while perching in the top of a snow-dusted mountain.

He has to agree with Dick on one thing, through: the K2 looks impressive this close. They are in no way as high as it highest peak, and there's enough distance between them and her –and Dick insists on calling the mountain a _she_– that it looks smoky blue even if the morning is cold and cloudless. But even a city boy like him has to accept nature beats in the awesomesauce department.

Maybe he isn't as sober as he first believed.

He doesn't care, thought. He's warm and fuzzy in his borrowed winter garment, and who would have believed a member of the Bat clan owned something in _red_? But then, Wally gets that bright colors make sense when security is concerned. He certainly stands out against the snow more than his cerulean dressed partner.

He snorts a little.

"You're not paying attention to anything I say," Dick declares in a surprisingly sober, if whinny, voice.

"Nope," Wally is happy to admit, and when a giggles follows he frowns into the thermos he's been clutching. "… the hell's in this shit."

Dick, of course, doesn't answer, and Wally lets him ramble about how climbing is like making love to a mountain or something like that.

God. Bats' gonna have his head for this.

* * *

><p><strong>06 [ Black | villain, stalker, obsession ]<strong>

"It's not Luthor."

Flash waits, his eyes never leaving their third companion. Batman says nothing, does nothing that could give away what he's thinking, but Flash knows. Batman agrees, this particular sociopath is ruled out. That doesn't mean he's happy with it.

It's only later, after Question has left, that he lets himself crumble, if only a little. It's been fourteen months since he first noticed. Well, actually … he looks at the clocks, the one with Central's time zone ticking its way past three a.m.

Make that fifteen months sharp.

"A year and a half, minimum," Batman says when Flash points the date, and yeah, he can see where the estimation comes from. There are two scenarios that could explain why he noticed his stalker when he did: either _He_ wants Wally to know … or _He_ is getting sloppy, which is an even more horrible, terrible thought.

"We have to tell the others," Flash says, knowing he doesn't have to explain his reasons - Batman understands obsession quite too well for anybody's comfort. As more time passes, the probability of something bad taking place increases exponentially.

And Flash doesn't even have the luxury of being selfish and thinking only of himself.


	3. Smoke, Anger

**07 [ Blue | smoke, dope, cold feet ]**

The smoke raises in the frigid night air, soft and cottony, the syrupy smell making Wally's eyes water a bit. He's already declined Dove's offer once, and knowing the peace-loving superhero, that means he's not going to be tempted again tonight. It is perfect, because he doesn't have enough willpower in himself to resist, not when the other superhero seems to be having such a great time.

"Should you be doing this while suited up?" he asks, snickering at the slightly clumsy movements, watching the bluish clouds as they frame Dove's face and go join their sisters in Wally's living room. He really hopes none of Central's PD has to come into his department the next week or so.

"Hank - he doesn't leave Don, me-as-Don, out of his sight," is delivered in a vaguely slurred speech. Wally could add that Hawk does the same with Dove, but Dove is sitting in his couch and the two of them are alone, so obviously that's not true anymore.

He wonders where Hank thinks his baby brother is, but doesn't ask. "You really shouldn't do this while suited up," he advises instead. "The smell, it clings."

It makes Dove hesitate, but then he's nodding and taking off his uniform, making Wally remember skintight suits and underwear don't really mix … which is why he ends pushing Don into the bathroom before changing his mind and pushing the blond into the bedroom instead. It's a less dangerous place for a currently inept person, superhero or not.

Don is giggling when they return to the living room, barefoot and dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts. In fact, he giggles for most of the next hour, even when he sloppily tries to kiss Wally.

"You're high," Wally says softly, holding Don's face between his hands so he can align their mouths properly. Then it is sweet and slow and hazy, and Wally knows he's soaring too thanks to the second-hand smoke, and his metabolism would be kicking in best were not for the weed fog currently stuffing up the room.

But.

He lets Don roam all over him, mouth and hands and half uttered words, only giving back soothing pats and shushing gibberish. It doesn't take long before the slow movements get even slower, and then he's in the awkward position of having a young adult man sprawled on him, softly snoring and completely lost to the world.

It's not so bad, he thinks, relishing on the intimacy and the body warmth. They could stay like this for a few more hours. Wally doesn't have to work tomorrow, and the League owes him a couple free days he could cash in. Don could certainly use some help to ride his oncoming hangover.

But.

The line is picked up even before the first ring ends, worry and anger equally clear on the other side.

"Don's fine," he says, knowing what news to deliver first. "It's Wally; he's crashing at my place."

He barely pays attention to Hank's angry rambling, busy as he is recycling the living room's air using his powers. The smell still clings, although faintly, but it feels like being into a freezer even after he closes the window again, and it helps clear his mind.

Don is going to need a couple sheets, maybe a quilt, Wally thinks, smiling while looking at the lump on his couch. Socks, too. Maybe the Man of Steel fuzzy things Kara gave him for Christmas.

* * *

><p><strong>08 [ Black | anger, wariness, darkness ]<strong>

"So. Batman is stalking you."

Wally sighs. He's already gone over this with the League's core, and it was awkward as hell, but at least that time Batman had been standing by him. _His_ Batman.

"The Lord version of him, yes."

Furthermore: even if John and Shayera initially looked at the Dark Knight with suspicion, the seven of them have talked about the Justice Lords extensively, and so they understand. Kara, Barbara and Dick, on the other hand, only have superficial knowledge of their other dimension's counterparts.

And then there's the fact that Dick actively hates Bruce's guts.

"And Superman's grand plan is to lock you up, of course."

Oh, and Kara and Clark are fighting again, too.

It is Monday, close to midnight, and they are on the top of one of Gotham's highest buildings, so darkness sticks to the crooks and corners in a way that it does not in Central, Keystone or Metropolis.

Bludhaven, of course, is another story.

"Any idea of what he wants?"

Barbara is worried, and Wally feels he owes her something a little more consistent than a shrug. Batman is, after all, something of a father for the Bat clan, strangled relationships or not.

He shrugs nonetheless. If there's something else he could say, he's unable to come by it on his own.


	4. Police

**09 [ Blue | police, childhood, ashes ]**

"… the fact that I'm not in the CSU, you know?"

McNamara rolls his eyes again before moving to talk to the police in uniform standing close. Wally sticks out his tongue at the retreating detective, knowing quite well that, combined with his freckles, the gesture makes him look like a spoiled child. An overgrown, long-limbed one, at that.

Wally loves everything childhood related, the guys at the Department know. It's not strange for him to be gifted with candy or stickers, or really cheap multicolored knick knacks. He once spent two hours making balloon hats and swords and flowers and animals for every PD staff that came asking for one.

For their kids, they said. Wally didn't care about the obvious lies.

Now he's standing in the middle of a little girl's room, birds and flowers covering almost every surface. Pink isn't the predominant color, green and yellow are. But yeah, there are sparkles, although only decorating the placard pinned to the door, five Comic Sans size 72-ish letters forming a name.

Sarah.

There's a mound of blue ashes piled in the middle of the carpet-less floor, not a single scorch mark in the wooden surface. So far, every analysis done to similar substances has delivered no result. The lab technicians involved haven't been able to do more than speculate, which offers no help to the agents investigating the disappearances. Wally understands the Crimes against Children Unit's feelings of uselessness. He's experiencing them himself.

The ashes' blue is almost electric, like a robin's egg. He's read the CSU's reports, but one thing is to be told and another to see it firsthand. By now they also know that taking pictures of it solidifies the dust into dark gray pebbles, and that bagging and tagging it gives as result the almost white powder the lab has been unable to identify.

He pinches a smidgen, rubs it between thumb and forefinger. There's something oily about the consistence, easily felt even despite the latex gloves, a viscosity that makes his neck hairs raise. He's the one who suggested the field testing; therefore, he's the one kneeling in a home's second floor, a voice in his head screaming things he doesn't want to consider.

No black light, it'll set the substance on fire. Still, there are other ways to identify the presence of bodily substances. Sweat, semen, saliva.

Blood.

His stomach churns at the positive. He starts another test, and another, and another. He's not thinking of pigtails and Girl Scout vests, or the frog cartoon stuck in the mirror's corner, the one he half remembers Flash drawing in exchange for a shiny rock about a year ago. Instead, he thinks of analysis, of reactives and catalysts, of the need to repeat the tests under controlled circumstances. DNA's equipment cannot be moved out of the lab.

The sun light causes no harm to the ashes, but scooping them, even to an open recipient, does. It is about the environment, but what in it? Not the air, as many of the other rooms had frequently open windows. There had been fluffy carpets, and a vinyl cover, and glazed tiles, and-

"McNamara, can you get me something to cut the floor?"

"The floor?"

Wally grimaces. A strand of sweaty hair is stuck over his left eye, but there's no way he's touching his face with the gloves still on.

"Its structure changed, it is _spongy_," he says, pressing a finger on the wooden panel to show how it partially gives under the pressure. He repeats the motion in a portion about a foot farther. Nothing happens. "I think that's what makes the substance keep its original constitution."

"I'll call the Crime Scene guys."

Wally could complain; he's the one who made the discovery, after all. But the quick tests are already giving results, and although most of them aren't rigorous enough to be accepted in court, everything points toward human remnants. He has to discuss this with his boss and the other police lab techs, they have to agree on a course of action, there are reports to be written, and he desperately needs to leave.

There's a reason why he choose a lab over field work. There are many reasons, actually, including his uneasiness at the idea of carrying a weapon - but his reluctance to deal with smidges of violence and insanity in between dashes of normalcy is a main one.

When he's Wally, at least.

"Okay, thanks. Could you-" he pauses, getting up with an effort. How long had he been crouching down, anyway? "Could you ask them to pick floor samples from the other scenes too?"

McNamara is in no way Wally's friend, he's made clear several times that the technician's style doesn't fit with the idea he has of somebody working in law enforcement. And yes, he's the same with every odd fish in the PD, but to Wally it is something of a personal affront, that he hasn't made the man smile yet.

He doesn't smile this time, either. Instead, he cuffs Wally's left shoulder while mumbling _Sure thing, pup_, making him stumble over shaky legs. Okay, that's a beginning, right?


	5. Alley

**10 [ Black | alley, aphrodisiac, lust ]**

He's not sure how he ended in this position, flush against an alley's wall while Richard Grayson, handsome heir of a playboy millionaire, eagerly sucks on his neck while his hands do wicked things to Wally.

"Dick, what, wait, no."

He wants to ask a hundred things. What's Dick doing in Central, what's he doing in Central in the middle of a weekday, why is he doing what he's doing to Wally, why does he think it is such a great idea to be doing it in the middle of a weekday in a Central City alley.

A leg inserts itself between Wally's, and almost immediately Dick starts dry humping him. He's hard, Wally can feel too clearly how hard Dick is, and he wants nothing more than lose himself to the sensation. But he knows that in the double life they both live, there are more likely explanations that UST and simple lust. He tries to sniff Dick's mouth, his face, his hair, even if the wet little bites along his jaw make it difficult for him.

Most people wouldn't believe it, but when it comes to sex, Wally has a lot of self-control. He wouldn't be able to pass for normal otherwise, the few times he manages to score a date. It took him months to achieve, but like with food consumption and walking and jogging and running while being Wally, he eventually developed a will stronger than what his easygoing persona seems to signal.

Still Nightwing, even in civilian attire, isn't somebody Wally can easily deal with.

"_Jesus_."

There's something, through, about having someone you find attractive groping you, especially when this somebody knows quite well what you hide from most of the world. Wally's fantasized about it, about having sex without holding his speed back, about-

"Dick, stop," he orders, pushing his friend with enough force to make him crash against the opposite wall and stumble down, panting and trying to recover some of the breath driven out of him. It doesn't take long, he's Bat-trained, after all, but it is enough for Wally to notice the skin prickling that lets him know they're being observed.

_Hey J'onn, two things, I need a favor and please don't look into my head_, he thinks, projecting his thoughts towards the Martian. He gets a hum as response; J'onn is now listening, curious. _Is Batman at the Tower?_ he asks, and gets an affirmative answer. _Send him down in five minutes._

He knows Batman is always stealthy, so he doesn't suggest the extra precaution. Instead, he focuses on Dick, and is ready when the attack comes. He uses the other man's momentum to pivot them both, changing their positions, and it is Dick who _uffs_ when he hits the wall, Wally covering him. He could do this faster, his hand hidden between their bodies … but, training or not, Dick is only human.

So he is careful. It takes him almost two minutes before Dick throws his head back, shudders and groans, the sound helping Wally not a bit. The warm moist patch under his hand proves that he pushed Dick over the brink, but the hardness is still there, clear beneath the soiled jeans.

An aphrodisiac. Dick's eyelids are down now, but Wally had enough time to notice the blown out irises that indicate a drug in action. He knows Dick carries many antitoxin pills while in uniform, but does he do the same on his civil attire?

Batman is silent when he arrives, although Wally has no problem noticing him. He reacts with curiosity at Dick's presence, but before Wally can explain his neck is being, hmm, _attacked_ again. Impatience makes Wally react rudely, and without pausing to think, he pushes Dick and slams him back against the wall, maybe a little more forcefully than intended.

Batman's glare is dangerous, but once the distraction disappears, the superhero immediately notices what Wally early did. Their voyeur has moved, still somewhere to the right, probably in one of the building's top floors. Wally thinks he's now closest to floor level.

With barely a rustle of his cape, Batman leaves.

Dick is blinking, confused; hopefully, Wally didn't give him a concussion. He is also, clearly, still under the influence.

_Can I run?_ Wally asks, and waits until J'onn confirms that yes, he can pick up speed without risking his secret identity to any close bystander. It takes him a moment to reach his apartment and set Dick into his bed, another two minutes to help the recovering superhero ride over a second orgasm. There are no pills or vials on Dick, no hidden compartments' belt or poach. All Wally can do is to get a wet cloth to put on the back of Dick's head.

The blood has stopped flowing, thankfully.

Is in the silence that follows Dick's third bout of groans that Wally hears his living room's window open almost too silently. His heart is pounding thanks to the mixed signals, his body itching. Batman is the one coming in, but which one? A heartbeat, a gesture Wally doesn't consciously interpret, and he knows. It is his Batman.

"Do you have …" he trails off, still standing between Dick and his bedroom's door. Batman, to his surprise, doesn't enter the room, throwing instead a hypodermic for him to catch. The liquid, amusedly, is pink.

Wally could do many things. He could shot Dick and then follow Batman, try to stop the man from leaving without some sort of explanation. Or he could wait for the window's latch to signal Batman's departure before helping Dick deal with the problem in a more pleasurable manner. They've talked about the scenario before, after all, and they've both admitted their curiosity. There wouldn't be bad feelings.

Instead, he shots Dick and sits on the bed's edge, holding his friend's shoulders while he trashes in pain. It only lasts a couple seconds, but to Wally time has a strange quality that makes it feel both too short and never ending at the same time. When finally Dick's eyes show recognition Wally stands, pulls out a clean towel, sweatpants and a t-shirt, and leaves the room quietly.

Batman's left by then.


	6. Flying, Stones, Winter, Syrup

**11 [ Blue | flying, sky, trust ]**

"Are you sure?" Shayera yells despite the fact that he can hear her perfectly clear over their communicators. They've been doing this for years now, and she still asks the same thing time and again.

"Quite!" he yells back. They both grin.

He's a runner. He knows the ability to fly is the most common response to the 'what superpower would you want to have' question. But he, he's always loved running. Sometimes when he's being philosophical he wonders if maybe he attracted the Speed Force because of it, or if perhaps he was made this way, born to become a speedster.

He doesn't care; he loves speed too much to mull about predestination.

Still, he enjoys this exercise. He knows it's the closest thing to flying he'll do, although plunging to earth at a neck-breaking pace cannot be called flying, honestly. Instead he focuses on the speed part. He knows that despite the air's poor friction he can increase his velocity, although he doesn't do it much because Shay is a bit against the level of risk involved.

GL too.

And Supes.

And J'onn, and Di.

Batman, on the other hand, allows him to experiment, although only under controlled conditions; meaning, in a training room in the Tower, with zero to barely increasing gravity values. He almost makes it boring, though, which is why Wally enjoys going to the desert more.

"Now!" he commands, and Shayera lets him go without hesitation. He turns, head still down, his hair flailing wildly; he's doing it mask-less this time. Over him, he can see Shay's wings flap lazily, the sun making her a featureless figure against the blue, clear sky.

* * *

><p><strong>12 [ Black | stones, acts of violence, respect ]<strong>

The flat stone hops six times before sinking in the dark water, each jump making a distinct yet harmonious sound. Flash grins. Pied Piper, nonetheless, doesn't seem pleased at his achievement.

"Do you even know why are people losing their mind?"

A thousand unvoiced answers later, Flash simply says "Huh?"

"And I don't mean The Eel crazy but more like Murmur. Except, you know, with everyday criminals instead of villains." Another stone, this one sinking diagonally with a clear _blop_. Piper cringes.

Flash sighs, still not knowing how much to share.

"I didn't know you'd noticed," he says, reaching for the small mound of stones between the two of them. The one he takes is not flat enough for his liking, so he absently rubs it at a moderately high speed.

"Or cared?" Piper adds with a smirk. "You know Cold. He has standards. And apparently, random acts of violence from run-of-the-mill citizens are no good for the Rogues' reputation."

Flash smirks back. "Quote, unquote?" It does, after all, sound as something Captain Cold would say.

Somewhere next to the riverbanks a frog croaks. Flash's stone jumps one, two times before diving into the mass of reed by the other side. Silence hangs heavy for two beats, and then the frog croaks again, indignation clear. Flash smiles. His aim is getting better.

"But seriously, Flash," Piper declares, turning to look directly at him. Although Flash's eyes stay on the water's surface, he knows Piper understands he has all his attention. "We'll be keeping our ears open. We have to defend our territory, after all."

Flash's smile morphs from smug to fond. "Of course," he says, taking another stone. It is strange, he knows, this relationship he has with his Rogues. There's trust, and respect, and sometimes he wishes all villains were this way, his and the League's. He gives the newly polished stone to his companion.

Piper's throw hops ten times, sounding remarkably like the first notes of a well-known Christmas carol. Flash laughs, and Piper chuckles with him.

* * *

><p><strong>13 [ Blue | winter, wind, gossip ]<strong>

"They think we're dating," Kara says, way too happily in Wally's opinion.

It's cold. Winter's end is still far away, they are in the middle of Metropolis' Downtown, wind running freely between the high buildings, Wally hasn't eaten a thing for _hours_, and so his metabolism has slowed down. His ears are freezing despite the wool hat, his nose feels like a chunk of ice, and his gloveless fingers are chilly and it _hurts_. Horribly, even.

Kara, of course, doesn't care.

_They_, Wally knows, is the bunch Kara hangs around when she's Supergirl and is at the Tower. He is friends with them too (he's friends with almost everybody) but he also spends a lot of time with the League's core.

_They_, Wally knows, includes Courtney, with whom Kara is having a spat. Again.

"You p-promised hot cocoa," he says, redirecting the conversation. They usually tease each other whenever those rumors come up again, taking bets on how long it'll take for the gossip mill to switch to other topics, but right now Wally couldn't care less.

"You're such a party pooper," she pouts, and then her frown turns worried when she notices his face. "Wally, are you okay? Your lips are blue."

"I'm f-f-f-freezing," he stutters, stopping when she turns around and stands right in front of him. Her little hands (in cute little pink gloves, he notices) pull his face down, and then she's kissing him - slowly, sweetly, kissing him, worrying his lower lip until he opens his mouth, then licking, teasing, biting oh so softly.

He can't help himself, can't stop his arms embracing her, his hands slipping under the coat, the sweater, the cotton shirt beneath it all.

"Shit, Wally!" she shrieks, jumping and slapping at him. It is only his fast reflexes what save him from a broken bone or two. "Your hands are freezing!" she chides, glaring while Wally tries (but not too hard) to reign in his laughter.

"Told ya," he finally manages. His lips are tingly and still a little warm, but he can feel the cold seeping back. "Now that you've finished taking advantage of me, can I have my cocoa? With little marshmallows, perhaps?"

She glowers at him, her perky nose rosy and her bubblegum lips puffy, and for a second Wally wishes things could be different between them. Then the moment passes, and he makes puppy eyes at her. She has never been able to stand his puppy eyes for long.

"You're ridiculous, you know that, right?"

Wally's grin, he knows, is _blinding_.

"But you love me."

"God knows why," she mumbles, pulling him down again and dropping a quick chaste kiss on the tip of his cold, cold nose. "Come on, popsicle. Let's melt you."

Wally goes.

* * *

><p><strong>14 [ Black | syrup, coffee, hot ]<strong>

"I think I might be exuding some sort of pheromone. Or something."

John's eyebrow raises so high Wally fears it might reach outer space. "Pheromone."

Wally nods eagerly. "Or something," he repeats. "You don't feel a sudden impulse to jump me?"

John's eyebrow is an interesting entity, Wally decides.

"Or maybe not so sudden," he adds, solicitous.

"No, kid. But don't worry. If I ever feel the impulse, I'll keep it under control."

Wally nods one more time, takes a long gulp of extra syrupy coffee. "Please do. It'll freak me out."

Ah, John's eyebrow again.

"I mean, not you," Wally feels the need to clarify. "You're cool, and hot, and …" he forces himself to stop, drink more coffee, redirect. "But Shayera'll kill me, and that's really not the way I want to die."

John sighs, and there, in that simple sound, Wally can clearly identify exasperation.

"One last time, hotshot: there's nothing between Shayera and I anymore."

"U-hu," Wally mumbles into his paper cup, just to have it snatched away. "Hey!" he whines, watching miserably while John drops it in a trash bin.

"Enough coffee for you, Wally."

Wally sighs, pouts a little but follows John without further complain.


	7. Road

AN: Those who read chapters 1-6 before the day this chapter is posted need to go back and re-read them. I have basically moved the first six sections to the first two chapters, so the material from chapters 3-6 will be new for you. Now every chapter is between ~900 and ~1900 words, so there's much more for you to read :D. Next update will be in a week.

* * *

><p><strong>15 [ Blue | road, bruises, steel ]<strong>

"Are you avoiding me?" he yells in order to be heard over the blowing wind. Tires screech in the lonely highway, and then Flash finds he's alone. Instead of turning around and going back to the luxury car's side, he continues down the road.

It takes another half hour for the car's owner to reach Wayne Manor. Flash doesn't care, he's willing to wait; he has a plate of cookies to keep him company, after all. Alfred has disappeared since, though. If it weren't such a silly idea for such a dignified character, Flash would think Alfred is hiding.

As it is, he's waiting alone in the living room when the main doors open. He counts to ten, then gets up slowly, in time to find himself face to face to an obviously angry Bruce Wayne.

"Get out of my house," Mr. Wayne says, and Flash looks at him curiously. He knows this is Batman, and some part of the anger he's witnessing is purely Batman, but looking at the face so openly makes painfully clear this is a man, and not the myth Flash has trusted his life to so many times.

He hesitates before breathing deep and taking off his mask with a wince. Now he is Wally and they are just men, both of them.

Mr. Wayne's eyes widen minutely, and Wally knows the tender skin around his left eye is still blue and purple. Then the man's gaze flickers down, and Wally knows the finger marks on his neck have not disappeared.

"What happened?" Mr. Wayne asks, and although the tone is almost cold and almost flat, to Wally, used as he is to Batman's voice, the fear and guilt and pain in it are way too clear.

Wally shrugs, watches the closed fists knowing quite well that the man wants to touch but won't dare.

"He had a trap waiting," he says. He doesn't have to clarify who _he_ is. "I managed to escape."

His fingers twitch, playing with his mask, and all he wants to do is cover his face and run away as fast as he can. The only reason he doesn't is the knowledge that, although he's not badly hurt and his injuries are healing nicely, Batman won't rest until seeing for himself that Flash is safe and sound. So instead of returning to Central, to his apartment, to his bed, when Mr. Wayne turns around without a word, Wally follows equally silently.

He keeps waiting for Mr. Wayne to become something more familiar in his mind, but it is not happening. Inwardly he tries _Brucie_. It doesn't work, but it makes him smile.

The Batcave is …

He's been in the Batcave more than once, but he can't avoid cowering a little every time he enters it. This time, nonetheless, the fright and awe recede quite rapidly when he realizes his companion is reaching for Batman's uniform.

"No, please," Wally blurts out. "Please," he repeats, his voice now barely a whisper. He's not sure why he doesn't want to have him hiding behind rubber and Kevlar, especially with how uncomfortable he feels around the face behind the mask.

The man hesitates for a moment, and then gets behind a screen in a far corner, disappearing from Wally's sight. Wally's heart plummets down, but he waits.

And waits.

The man that emerges is a more familiar version of a stranger. Dressed in black sweatpants and a black t-shirt, there's even something different in the way he moves. And then, when they lock eyes, Wally finds his friend and League partner. The grin that blossoms at the discovery is silly, but he doesn't care.

"Hey," he says, feeling a lot more like himself. "Bruce, right?"

There's something amused in his companion's eyes, and a quirk of the lips that looks like the beginning of a smirk. It dies soon, though, when Bruce gets closer. He frowns and the sniff he takes is not as discreet as the first one. Wally knows he smells fresh, of soap and the shower he took before running down to Gotham. He can see the wheels moving, Bruce's eyes turning to steel.

"Did he -"

"No," Wally interrupts, razor sharp and categorical. The steel doesn't disappear, though, although it recedes minutely. Wally waits, waits a little more, fidgets.

Bruce nods, apparently deciding he's going to trust Wally on this. "On the stretcher," he orders, and Wally hops on it and his feet dangle. It is like going to the pediatrician again.

_A scary one_, he thinks, trying to avoid blinking while Bruce looks at his pupils. The light beam makes his eyes water. Then Bruce is poking around his left eye, and yes, it hurts, but not enough for Wally to do more than whimper a little. There's a bump in the back of his head, which barely hurts by now but is dutifully catalogued.

The examination of the neck marks is awkward, to say the least. Bruce is careful and clinically detached, which helps, but when he positions his hand to match the fading marks, Wally has to close his eyes. He doesn't want his realities mixing thank you very much. When Bruce discovers the scratches near Wally's nape and makes him bend his head to take a better look, the image of a guillotine flashes in his mind.

It is until Bruce orders, "Take off the top of your uniform," that Wally opens his eyes again. He grins, a joke at the tip of his tongue, but Batman's glare makes him stop. Not because he's afraid of Batman, although he often is, but because it is _Batman's glare_ on _Bruce's face_, and it is strange enough a situation to make Wally pause.

The striptease has to wait, though, because as soon as the first glove is off, Batman snatches his hand. Wally looks at it curiously. The skin over his knuckles is new, pinkish and brilliant, and there's more new skin in a strip on his palm, although the darker color in it signals heavier damage. His left hand's palm is undamaged but his thumb is swollen. It still hurts a bit when Wally is not careful enough, but at least it is not dislodged anymore.

The scratches and bruises around his wrists have almost disappeared. Still, it is kind of obvious what caused them.

"How did he get you?" Bruce asks nonetheless, because making people uncomfortable is something Batman is good at.

Wally shrugs and takes the top off in one swift, if painful, movement, because at least he can try to distract Bruce with other prime specimens of his collection of bruises. "Gravity traps in the bridge between Central and Keystone."

Bruce says nothing, only growls, although Wally doesn't know if it is because of his admission of having been caught in such a dumb, if not at all unexpected way, or due to the mirroring finger marks on his biceps, the long bruise where the largest metal band crossed over his chest, and the darker, more extensive bruises on his back, from the original impact to the floor. _Maybe both_, he thinks, and squirms a little when Bruce pokes at his ribs.

"It tickles," he explains when they lock eyes.

The bruises on his arms make Bruce hesitate for a second.

"My arms were like this," Wally offers, raising them in a Y shape. "Like Da Vinci's drawing. Legs too." And either he's tired and a bit hungry, or the earlier rush of adrenaline has left him weak, because his arms start trembling with the strain. When Bruce hands rush to help him hold the position he is thankful at first, before he gets it.

Bruce gets his startle, obviously, although Wally is thankful when he doesn't drop him like a hot potato and instead remains analytically detached. Once again, he makes each hand cover the respective mark; they match perfectly. Then he helps Wally lower his arms slowly, until each elbow is cupped in a hand. Wally breathes deep, swallows thickly, lets his hands slip to his lap. The watery smile he conjures is light years away from his usual ones, but at least now they know he still trusts this dimension's Batman.

"He…" Whatever it is he meant to say, Bruce doesn't finish it. Instead, he looks around, as if searching for an answer. He returns with a pair of running shorts, which Wally guesses are either part of the Cave's stock or belong to Dick, because he can't imagine the Dark Knight in running shorts, civilian identity or not. He hands them to Wally, not looking directly at him. "You said he didn't -"

"_No_," Wally interrupts again, and rushes behind the screen to change. It is ridiculous, the fact that he is blushing. The only thing that makes the situation somewhat bearable is the knowledge that Bruce is in an equally uncomfortable position, basically having to ask whether or not did he rape Wally.

_Jesus_.

He hadn't allowed himself to think of the possibility, but now that it is out, Wally can't take it off of his head. He _knows_ that his stalker is obsessed with him, and due to how events have unfolded, he knows without a doubt that there's a certain sexual component on it. It is only one part of what this whole fixation is about -there's guilt and blame, and solitude, and a twisted sense of responsibility too- but one he's utterly unprepared to deal with.

"Are you okay?"

Bruce's question finally helps him snap out of it, and he returns to the main room and hops on the stretcher with a playful smile on his lips. "Considering that my definition of being okay basically is 'it could be worse' then yes, I guess I'm okay."

"That's … quite pessimistic of you," Bruce says, watching Wally face's closely, as if expecting him to break down.

Wally's chuckle possibly doesn't help comforting him. "In fact, that way of thinking is what makes me such a die-hard optimist."

Bruce makes no comment except for "Raise your left foot." Wally does as ordered, waiting patiently while fingers gently probe the scratches and bruises on his ankle before quickly prodding his bones and running swift exploring hands over calf, quadriceps and femoral. "Right foot" is followed by more of the same, except for the light squeeze on his still slightly swollen knee.

Then there's nothing more to poke at, except for Wally's extremely twisted psyche, and that's something he won't let anybody close to, not even a paranoid Bat. Bruce doesn't even spare another glance in his direction, moving instead to sit in front of the computer, his hands immediately flying over the keyboard as words pour into one record or the other. He says nothing, and for the third time in the evening Wally waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Eventually he flops to his right, turns on his back and crosses his arm over his eyes to block out some of the light. It hurts the bruise still there, but he knows the Cave's lights won't be dimmed for his sake, pounding headache or not. The stretcher is barely enough to hold his long-limbed frame, but it'll make do if he doesn't move much. He breathes deeply, forces his mind to stop spinning at breakneck velocities, focus on the _clickity-clack_ instead.

Nightmares, he suspects, are waiting around the corner.


	8. Emptiness

**16 [ Black | emptiness, death, stop ]**

"Now slow down, easy, slowly. More. Wally, more. More, Wally. Wally. Wally, _stop!_"

From the backseat comes what Wally thinks might be a soft curse, but he's never heard Diana curse and thus is not really sure. Shayera, on the other hand, makes clearly known how pissed she is.

"I told you to stop!"

"You also told me to make it slowly!"

"That wasn't _slow_, that was _crawling_! You were barely putting pressure on the brake!"

"Well, I did, in the end!"

"And you made me hit my head!"

"Well, maybe you should have used your seatbelt!"

"I think Wally is right on that one," says a calm voice, and Wally looks over his shoulder to smile at Diana. She looks a little disheveled, but that doesn't stop her from sweetly smiling back.

"You think he's _right_?" Shayera asks incredulously, turning in her seat to glare at Diana full front.

"The way he drives?" Diana answers, the corner of her eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yes. You definitely should use your seatbelt."

Wally's indignant "Hey!" gets completely ignored, not that he's surprised. He definitely shouldn't have asked both Shayera and Diana to come. While separately they are the most patient teachers (a quality he's not used to associate with Shayera, by the way), together they tend to pack against him.

"-it makes them hurt," Shayera is saying to Diana, partially extending her wings and managing to hit Wally squarely in the forehead.

"Careful with that!" he says, rubbing the spot. Shayera wings' bones might be hollow, but the muscles needed to move them make the things too powerful for enclosed spaces.

"But what I want to know," Shayera says, folding her wings and refusing to look repentant, "is why the hell your driving is getting worse."

Diana's "I was wondering the same" makes impossible for Wally to claim denial.

"It's the scenery," he admits, signaling to the endless and utterly empty landscape. "Why did we have to come to Nevada, anyway? And why do I have to drive in this, this - I mean, where are the mountains? I know there are cannons around here, why can't I drive near the cannons?"

"Hera, no." Unlike Shayera, who is laughing shamelessly, Diana has the decency to look guilty at her outburst.

"Most people find that a lack of distractions helps them focus best," Shayera finally manages, not so discretely drying laughter tears. "Obviously, you're not like most people."

Well, there's the fact that none of the Leaguers is like most people …

"Yeah, I could have told you that," Wally grumbles. "I cannot focus if there are no indications of how fast I'm moving," he explains, pointing again at the miles and miles of nothing but sand, a single stripe of highway crossing it.

Shayera blinks and Diana does too. It is the second of them who asks, "Really?"

Wally snorts, crossing his arms like a petulant child. As if he'd lie about that. "Imagine that you have been asked to run alongside a snail," he says, pulling an example out of thin air. "You are not allowed to exceed its maximum speed, and the only way you have to know the snail's maximum speed is by taking it by reference."

"You have no idea what velocity you're moving at?" Diana frowns, and Shayera moves in her seat to rest against the copilot's door and look at him with curiosity plain in her face.

"_I _do," Wally informs them. "But the _car_," he stresses, shaking his hands around as if directed by a deranged puppeteer, "is not part of me. It is confining, and it makes me feel like I'm trapped in a bizarre dream, both moving and not moving at the same time."

"But you don't have the same problem with the javelin," Shayera says. Something in her tone makes Wally realize that she still doesn't believe him.

"Gravity works differently in the javelin," he tries to explain, not sure as to what he can say to make them understand. "And I've never piloted it in open space, but I think it might be the same? Or something? I really, really don't know how to explain this."

Silence follows his admission, and for a while none of them says a thing. It doesn't last too long, thought, as staying still inside of a car in the middle of the dessert is generally not a good idea. Wally is starting the engine when Shayera finally points "The car has a speedometer," as he knew one of them would.

"I can't keep looking at it all the time." Still, he makes a point to glance at it more frequently than before, and the car moves smoothly for a while. It doesn't take long before he starts feeling uncomfortable. It must show in his face, or maybe he's fidgeting too much, because after a rustle of feathers that Wally has come to relate with nervousness, Shayera reaches for the seatbelt.

Diana moves in the back seat, and when Wally meets her eyes over the rearview, she shares a soft smile that helps him relax a little. "Is it related to your powers?" she asks, and the child-like curiosity in her question makes him think about it before answering.

"I think so, but to be honest I don't know." Shayera raises her eyebrow in surprise, but doesn't interrupt him. "I never had the chance to drive a car before I got my speed. I've been a passenger most of my life."

"So it is driving, not vehicles, what bothers you."

He winks at her. "It's not the same. When I'm not behind the wheel I don't have to invest all of my focus to avoid involuntary manslaughter."

"That does nothing to reassure me," she says, but her smile and her tone make clear she's back to teasing him. "Are you sure fear isn't tainting what you experience?" she asks a bit more seriously.

A shrug is Wally's first response. "It might be. I mean, my body reacts almost immediately, and even then I've lost control of it now and then. And cars, they take ages to react; and to be the one responsible of a ton of metal and stuff, moving faster than the average human being, is just-"

"Scary," Diana finishes for him. "I think I'll fly these next days." The joke is not completely successful to Wally ears, as he can detect the hint of nervousness in her voice.

"On the other hand, I don't know when I'll have the chance to do this again," he says with a grin, stepping fully on the gas and making the car jump from tortoise to hare.

"Wally, what-!" Shayera's next words die in her mouth when they suddenly stop. She looks around, surprised, and Wally knows she's noticed the sand clouds that mark their trail. "Okay, what the hell did you do?" Her voice is calmer, but there's cold fury pooling in her eyes.

It makes Wally kind of nervous, but the recent rush counterbalances it, and he's capable of looking at her directly without cringing. "I stole our speed," he explains.

"The hell that-"

"_Our_ speed?" Diana interrupts. "Not only the car's, but ours as well?"

Understanding shines in Shayera's face, making anger disperse a little. "That's why we didn't bounce like balls when the car stopped." Then there's suspicion. "You stole our speed. Why does that sound dangerous?"

_Now_ Wally cringes. "Because it kinda can be? If too much is taken, I mean. But I only took enough to counteract the car's sudden lack of movement."

"Could you do that to any moving vehicle?" Diana asks before Shayera voices her complain, and Wally can immediately see they both are remembering their plight against an unstoppable train a month ago. With Superman and Kara out of Earth, the League had been a hair short from tragedy, a fact the press still focuses on now and then.

Wally himself has thought of the incident on a nightly basis since it happened. "Dunno, never tried," he says with his best guiltless face. He doesn't add that his grandfather, half of the reason why he ended in a science-related field, wrote a whole equations system that predicted quite reasonably the possible uses and dangers of Flash's speed-related powers.

"Yes, well, maybe you should _try_," Shayera retorts with clear irritation. Diana, on the other hand, simply smiles sweetly before announcing they still have left half an hour before they're forced to return to their duties.

And so, Wally drives.


	9. Waves

**17 [ Blue | waves, rest, relaxation ]**

"This one is perfect!"

Wally's idea of perfection diverges dramatically from Garth's, but before he's allowed to say so the wave arrives. For somebody as used as he is to fighting mega-ultra-duper-villains while running at supersonic velocities, Wally is utterly unprepared for the swiftness and ferocity of the attack, for the monster that tries to kill him both by means of drowning and blunt force.

"Okay, that was lame," Roy declares later, after Dick has pulled Wally out from a sure death and dumped him unceremoniously on the beach. Garth is standing right behind Dick, giggling merrily and snorting at the same time, a combination that should have been odd but strangely is not. Dick himself is on his knees, managing to look worried and angry at the same time.

He's oh so similar to his daddy, not that Wally will tell him. Again. Today.

Also, did he just give Wally mouth-on-mouth?

"You really do this for fun?" he whines when he finally gets some air back into his lungs, although that the amount is not enough is kind of obvious by the way he wheezes every two syllables or so.

It takes him about half an hour, but finally the others acknowledge he's not suddenly going to die. Even then, they only get back into the sea after they've armed him with a bottle of sunscreen, a towel, sunglasses and their picnic basket. By the time they return the sun is setting, he's perfectly toasted on both sides and the black eye is on its way from disappearing, as are the basket's contents.

"It must be helpful," Roy says, tilting Wally's head with still wet fingers. It's - okay, it spooks Wally in a way that's both fully yet uselessly expected, this personal invasion of his personal space by an almost stranger, this wish for him to be able to hide into his own skin, this desire to bolt to the other side of the world just barely prevented by pure willpower.

Over Roy's shoulder Dick's frown deepens while Wally cheekily delivers "I have no use for turtlenecks, so yes. It is quite helpful."

Garth and Roy laugh, and then move to complain about the almost emptiness of the basket, which he refuses to feel guilty about. He isn't the first meta they have met, what do they think his speed feeds of, anyway? Roy's response, however profanity-laced, attaches to his brain like a very persistent tick.

"You use the worst metaphors, Wally," Dick complains hours later, while they sit on the sand and their companions sleep soundly in their tents.

"Yes, well, one of my neighbors had this little cute dog, his name was Rapunzel, don't ask me why a girl's name for a boy dog, at least the neighbors' son was called Fred and not something like Tiara or I don't know, Bella, but he had a tick infestation, the dog, not the son, and it wouldn't just _go away_. And it was just terrible, because you could see the little thing was suffering, I tell you, _suffering_, and have you ever seen those Hallmark-like cards with dogs doing puppy eyes? Oh, hehe, I guess that's why they are called puppy eyes, right? And even if they bathed Rapunzel every day, to the point that then he got poisoned and started losing hair and for like a week there was hair and twitching but no dead ticks all over the building. But at least that finally explained why he kept getting ticks, because it became obvious that he was leaving his humans' apartment at times other than when they took him out to, you know, pee. And poop, which I know, totally gross."

Dick only smiles amusedly in his best Bat-way, which means that at the same time he looks at Wally intently, saying without words _I know you're only babbling to avoid my questions_ and _You're safe this time, but don't expect next time to be the same_ and _I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm going to go out of my way to blame Bruce for it_.

Really, Wally could write whole books from what Dick doesn't say out loud.


	10. Oil

**18 [ Black | oil, venom, unexplained ]**

"We have to stop meeting like this," he says, startling her by literally appearing out of nowhere. "For starters, Aquaman will have my hide if he figures out you've been contaminating his domain just to have an excuse to see me."

His grin is teasing, wide, and it only gets wider when she rolls her eyes.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up."

"See? You think of me all the time. It can't be healthy, this obsession of yours."

The chuckle is expected but rewarding nonetheless. "Sure, young man," she says, her visage turning serious, although less so than earlier. She's focused on her job again, and Flash follows her example. The ship rocks gently under his feet. It takes a moment for him to get used to it, but after two years of following Evie around the globe, compensating for the gentle sway is almost second nature.

"What does your nose tell you?" she suddenly asks.

Flash blinks, taken aback. Frowns. She's old enough to have been his elementary school teacher, and even if that doesn't stop the flirting, sometimes her tone makes him think of classrooms and missing homework. With a mental shake he gets closer to the rail and peers down more closely.

"It smells … funky."

Her eyebrow rises at his last word, and he has to stop himself from squirming and blurting out the right answer. The smell is chemical in nature, strangely dissimilar to that of yet-to-be-processed petroleum. The sulfuric component, for example, is too strong for the kind of crude this platform is supposed to be pumping, and it is at the same time far too sweet for the amount of aryl hydrocarbon expected in this part of the world.

Not that he can tell her that.

She sighs at his unconcerned shrug, her glare telling way too clearly that she isn't that much fooled. "You have been on enough oil spills with me, Flash," she chides and glares a little more.

Okay. Now she's given him a way out, and now he also has to add one more name to the _list of_ _people who know or suspect something about Flash's secret identity_. The list, which is purely mental in nature, has gotten long enough that he's been thinking about writing it down.

"This isn't oil, right? Not, uh, crude, I mean."

Evie's smile is pleased. "No crude at all." Then her face is serious and worried at the same time. "I suspect it might be highly flammable, so please don't run too close to it."

"The friction-" he starts, clamping his mouth closed almost instantly. It's paranoid, he realizes, as Flash knowing a bit of science if related to his speed would not be really all that strange. "You think I might" _ignite it_ "start a fire unknowingly?"

"Well, you certainly won't do it on purpose, will you?" The snark in her voice is comforting, and he smiles with her. "Furthermore, its fumes are very likely toxic in high concentrations, and with your metabolism you would absorb it faster."

"I'd recover fast too."

"Your liver, lungs and pancreas won't."

The finality of her words shocks him into silence. He's used to other superheroes worrying about him, especially those in the core and those close to him; but civilians, they usually see him as nothing but a suit. Invincible, even if he's not.

"So, waste oil," he finally admits, and her eyes enlarge a bit. Immediately he asks, "How many barrels are we talking about?" and her mind focuses back on her work again.

"Way too many to be easily explained. Or legal." A young man approaches at her command, obviously a bit awed. He hands her a clipboard with a stack of both handwritten and printed sheets, stealing at the same time a glance in Flash's direction.

Flash's mind-blinding sunny grin has him leaving almost immediately, flushed and stuttering in what might be Finnish. Or Sanskrit.

"Don't toy with the help, dear." There's a hint of an amused smirk in Evie's face, even if her eyes keep scanning over the documents. "The rest of my crew already idolatrizes you as it is. I don't need the new kid having a crush on you."

Flash smiles, trying to stave the itch to ask for the reports. Looking down at the dark stains clinging on the water's surface, he lets his mind run over previous spills.

"So, no dispersants, no burning, no bioremediation?" He's not sure about the last one, but after Evie's nod he continues. "No skimming, as I checked the weather and it won't get calmer than this. How dense is this thing, by the way?"

"Not enough for the dredger to be needed. It leaves vacuuming or solidifying, both of which mean we'll later have to return some of the waste oil to the environment."

Flash knows this part of the job always bothers her. Furthermore, he understands it is more of a concern this time. "So it depends on the toxicity, right? The vacuum and centrifuge if the levels are not high, hydrophobic polymers otherwise."

Her laughter is something of a startled affair, and ends abruptly. "Now you're just showing off," she scolds teasingly. "Unfortunately, the preliminary results confirm heavily toxic substances," she informs him, knuckles rapping on the clipboard. "The toxicity of the fumes is not as high as I feared, but we'll still have to quarantine the solidified oil."

"So I'm clear to run around like a dust fairy?" Flash has done it only twice, both times amusing him greatly. There is something deeply satisfying in watching the granulated powder encapsulate the offending fluid and turn it into a filthy brown parody of soapsuds. Fishing all of it out of the water has been kind of grimy, but this time he doesn't expect to directly participate in that part of the job. If Evie is right, Hazmat equipment will be needed.

Evie shakes her head, amusement making her eyes spark. "I still need to revise the plan with the environmental authorities, and I won't let you do it without a gasmask, but otherwise, feel free to knock yourself." It sounds like a dismissal; from previous experiences, Flash knows they'll have to wait at least another day, and so his presence is not required at the time. Nonetheless, something tells him she's not finished. "Why do you do this, Flash?" she asks after a moment, confirming his suspicions.

In the distance, two small boats he knows belong to her company follow a zigzag pattern. They haven't finished tracing the spill's contour, then. He can see a few yellow buoys left on the closest ship.

"What do you mean?" he asks back, genuinely confused. There are at least three different ways he could interpret the question.

"We don't need you," she says, and it is so surprising, the declaration so unexpected, that he stops following the boats and focuses completely on her. "Not the way the big oil spills, the ones that make the news, need you," she explains, conciliatory. "Your help is greatly appreciated, and whenever we have you we can cut the times in half, even to a third, but we don't _need _you."

Flash shrugs, uncomfortable.

"The faster the damage is undone, the better for the small fish. And the big fish. And the bird. And, and the shrimp. Don't you think the shrimp is worth it?"

"Shrimps have high tolerance to toxins."

The deadpan declaration forces a nervous guffaw out of him, which turns into a chortle he cannot stop. She's signed over twelve reports by the time he regains control.

"Being honest?" he starts, looking around before continuing, "Instant gratification."

Her eyebrow is up after his admission, but she continues signing for a moment. Then she makes a signal and a young woman jogs to their side.

"Hello, Flash," she says with a smile, taking the clipboard and presenting another, this one with a smaller stack of papers, to the older woman. "Will we have you tomorrow?"

"Whenever you need me."

Mia is happily married with a kid, Flash knows both the husband and the baby boy, but that doesn't stop her from deliberately looking him up and down before delivering a "One day I'll take you up to your word" and leaving with both clipboards.

"I think I'll start advertising it as a perk of the job," Evie says as soon as they are alone again. "How many companies offer a visiting superhero every two months or so?"

Flash smiles. "I guess it depends. In Central City or somewhere else?" They both chuckle. Silence returns slowly, comfortable and familiar.

"I guess I understand what you mean," she says after a while. "My crew doesn't get why I do the dishes whenever I'm stressed. They don't seem to realize that, when overwhelmed with responsibilities, it is nice to have some chore you can easily attack and see the results before you go to bed."

Flash agrees completely, but can't help to add, "Plus, the chances of somebody getting burned or drowned because of a half-clean saucer are really, really low."

"That too."

They keep silent again, watching the small boats return, the two Flash had seen before and a third the horizon had hidden from his sight. The flow of the chit-chatter barely heard from her earpiece becomes more fluid, and he knows she usually schedules a crew meeting before dinner, which this close to the North should have taken place about an hour and a half ago.

"What kind of process produces this much waste oil?" he asks, because the busted oil tanker is, according to the information feed to him earlier, just one of a fleet that travels the same route several times a week.

She shrugs, obviously as perplexed as he. "Would you guys want a copy of the reports?"

He says _yes_ and waits while she calls for yet another attendant, this one a chemist that only recognizes Flash's presence with a sharp nod before leaving.

"So, who hired you this time?" Flash asks with a suddenly smug smile.

"Greenpeace," she grumbles between her teeth, confirming what he already knows. Before he can add something, nonetheless, she continues. "No, I'm not selling myself. I simply accepted their offer because they were the only ones paying attention to this event."

"But still, you hate-"

"Their tactics, not their spirit. And Mark is searching for other sponsors, and Tania is putting together the evidence. These might be international waters, but the responsible company will find their clients suddenly jumping boat once this reaches the press."

Flash nods, agreeing, and they fall silent once again, the rocking now increased by the evening's harsher wind. On the sea, the buoys' nightlights flicker on one by one, sometimes two at once, until there's a line of blinking moving beams. They are not too much unlike stars, Flash thinks, and looks up to see the real ones on the clear night sky.


	11. Blue screen of doom

**19 [ Blue | blue screen of doom, mistake, sleeplessness ]**

"You're doomed."

Wally groans, dropping his head dejectedly so it knocks over the desk with a soft _thump_. The advantages of having a lot of work pending. Not that it'll save him from a future headache, although at least it won't be produced by head-versus-desk trauma.

"Is that your professional opinion?" he asks, his voice muffed and, well, kind of whine-y.

Dan's chuckle is aggravating. "Wally, man, it is not called the Blue Screen of Doom for nothing." There's a pause while the rest of Wally's co-workers chuckle, and then the IT adds, "Sorry I couldn't be of help. But hey! You'll be getting a new computer by Wednesday, Tuesday even, if you convince your boss to sign the papers before exit time."

"Yeah, about that. Can we keep this from my boss?"

"I'm afraid it's a little late for that," a graver voice says, and Wally groans once again, this time silently. When he finally gets the courage to pick up his head andopen his eyes, his boss is, as expected, standing _right there_. The rest of the lab technicians are by charm intensely engrossed in their own job, the fuckers, and all that's left to see from Dan is his retreating back leaving the room.

"Care to explain, Mr. West?" the man asks, and it only makes Wally's stomach plummet deeper, however physically impossible it might be. He is _Wally_ here. Nobody's called him anything other than _Wally_ after his first week at the job - well, no. Some people call him Wal, or kid, or pup, or something equally patronizing. But he is, nonetheless, no _Mr. West_. That's his father, and he doesn't like being associated to the man.

"Uh, um," he tries to explain, and for a horrified moment forgets how to _speak_. "My computer crashed, sir. I, it, just. Dan from IT says nothing can be saved from it, uhm. Sir."

The glare switches for a moment to the still bright blue screen, as if the man could coward the machine into working. When nothing happens, his attention goes back to Wally.

"Then it is a good thing you keep a backup," he mentions casually, narrowing his eyes when Wally nervously looks elsewhere but at him. "You keep a backup, don't you, Mr. West?"

One of the things Wally likes about this job is his boss; he's heard horrifying stories about evil and idiotic bosses elsewhere, but that's never been the situation with Dr. Keats. He's competent, and understanding, and generally a nice guy.

He's also currently under a lot of fire from the Mayor Office and the press, due to a badly handled set of tests that resulted in a rapist being set free and several dozen lawyers clamoring for their convicted clients' cases to be reviewed, and for every evidence that came from the Police Lab to be dismissed.

"Uh, kind of, sir? I do an instant backup of all the test results, and a daily backup of every file we send outside."

There's silence, and a slightly confused frown in his boss' face. "And?"

"And, I do a weekly backup of all the reports I'm still working on, sir. On Fridays," he admits, his last two words barely a whisper.

"_Today_ is Friday." Wally's nod is eager and reluctant at the same time. "I guess you don't do said backup before," and here his boss looks at the wall clock for a moment, "eleven thirty in the morning?" Wally shakes his head. "How much is lost?"

"I'm working on five investigations," Wally admits, cringing and hurrying to add, "I have a printed copy of all my reports up to yesterday, here," he says, pointing at five binders neatly sitting at the farthest corner of his desk, "and I'm helping on two other cases. I sent a draft to Lee and Riley yesterday and earlier today, respectively, via internal email."

"How much is _lost_?" his boss repeats, probably wondering what Wally is unwilling to admit.

"I - pretty much everything I did today, except for Riley's report, and almost a week's worth of digital copies. I estimate it'll take me about twenty working hours to capture it all again, sir. It was a, a busy week." And then, knowing that Dr. Keats already knows, but understanding that it had to be said, "I have the bulk of the Roe analysis, sir. And the Elm Street arsonist's tests."

"What date did we give to the Detectives?"

"Today for Elm, Monday for Roe, although we still have to wait for the State Lab's results, which should come on Tuesday. I had already written my final report for Elm, as well as the ones for two of my minor cases." _Written but not printed_, he doesn't say. He doesn't need to.

"Let's hope they are still fresh in your memory," Dr. Keats says before turning to look at the department's secretary. "Mrs. Holt," he says, and even if she's at the other side of the room, Wally can see she's suddenly pale, "Mr. West will be using your computer today; you can use mine while I'm outside. Please take care of the paperwork needed to replace the damaged equipment. I want it on his desk by early Monday."

"Yes sir."

"I seem to remember I sent two new cases in your direction today, Mr. West," he says, turning his intense gaze back on Wally.

"Yes, sir. These ones, sir. I had started the preliminary work on them already, but…"

But it, of course, is lost.

"Mr. Morrison, Ms. Yamamoto," Dr. Keats says, taking the bunch of files and putting them on Lee's desk, which happened to be the one at Wally's right. "These are now yours."

Lee sputters but says nothing. Riley, on the other hand, takes the first one and looks at it in disbelief. "Sir, with all respect, I already have five cases in my hands."

"One of which Mr. West graciously helped you with. Don't worry, Mr. Morrison. He'll take both back, once he's finished with Roe." Wally twitches uncomfortably in his place. He's always had a good relationship with his coworkers, but this is going to mud their interactions a bit during the next days.

"Mrs. Holt, please prepare a daily format. From now on, every technician on this lab will sign it by their time of departure, stating that they have done a backup of that day's work. Ask the Juridical Department to send you a transcript of all relevant articles on every regulation applicable to public servers' responsibilities."

"Yes sir."

"And Mr. West," he finally says, raising his voice and shutting down the rising hubbub, "I want both a digital and a printed copy of all your work on my desk by eight in the morning, tomorrow."

Wally, having raised from his seat to hand Dr. Keats the files, sits down heavily. "_Eight_ in the morning?" he asks. Further to his left, somebody says _'Tomorrow?'_ in an equally incredulous tone.

"You said twenty hours, Mr. West; I'm giving you twenty hours." And with that he leaves the lab.

Nobody moves for many seconds.

"I'm writing my password here", Rose's slightly shaking voice finally breaks the silence, showing Wally a blue post-it and sticking it on her monitor. "The control and shift keys on the left don't work, but the right ones do. I'll pull all calls from the, from Dr. Keats' office, so don't worry about the phone." Her smile is watery, but at least she doesn't seem to be blaming him for her boss' mood.

"Shit, Wally," Thompson says from Wally's left, before rolling back to his desk when Riley approaches. All around the rest of the lab technicians go back to work except for Lee, who looks at the two of them with both curiosity and pity clear on her face.

"I'm assuming you already made some notes on," Riley trails down while reading the first page of the file on his hand, "the murders and exsanguination of three young gay men, and hey, it was on TV last night. Isn't this a FBI case? And isn't it located on Keystone?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Wally answers, unclipping a small pile of sheets from his notepad and delivering them on Riley's hands. "And there are actually four murders; they found another victim earlier today. I talked to Kyle Gordon, the lab technician in charge at Keystone, his contact info is on the second page. Their tests for the first two murders are inconclusive, and the ones for the third one are contradictory with the FBI lab's results. They want the three labs running parallel tests this time; he said we should receive our samples by noon."

"How do we know their CSU people are not the ones contaminating the scene?"

"We don't, which is why the FBI will send us a second set of samples picked up by their own people. One of their technical analysts was leaving Keystone twenty minutes ago, so it shouldn't take too long for them to arrive, either."

"Okay," Riley says, and for a moment there's awkwardness, before he reaches and ruffles Wally's already too long hair. "You better get started, kid."

Wally dodges, trying to comb his hair back into submission with nothing but his fingers. Left alone again, he turns to face his desk, picking up the Elm binder, his notepad and a couple reference books he already used earlier.

"Hey, my crime scene has green blood!" Lee suddenly declares, looking up from the open file on her desk. "Do you think Vulcans are involved?" she asks when hers and Wally's eyes lock, raising her right hand in a perfect Vulcan salute.

The goofy smile, of course, clashes completely with the intended effect.

Wally is chuckling while he tries to get comfortable in Rose's place. It is impossible, as he's extremely aware that he's invading someone else's place. His books and binder end atop the CPU's case, a yellowed monstrosity that clackers and whirls menacingly. The notes rest on his lap. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply and counts backwards, from ten to zero, mentally preparing for what comes.

His cell phone rings, the catchy melody the one he choose for inconspicuous League communication. With a curse he snaps his phone open, delivering a curt "Whatever it is, I can't right now" before the person on the other side has a chance to speak. Then he listens, his stomach churning at what he has to say, but still he does, "Sorry, no," and then cuts the communication. What he does with the League is important, but so is his daily job. What he's doing right now will hopefully help identify a rapist, a baby abductor and an arsonist, as well as keep a megalomaniac and a self-widower from escaping justice.

Mentally recalling his now lost closing report, he starts typing, trying to ignore both the internal guilt and his co-workers' stares. He's going to have to ask for forgiveness all around, eventually. Right now, though, he tries not to think in anything other than the work that awaits him.


	12. Checkers, Pier

AN: I last updated this fic exactly a year ago. I have received nothing but love from you guys since then, so ... here you go. Also, as I said at the beginning, this fic is a writing exercise. As such, feel free to share words that sound "blue" and "black" to you, as my list of inspiration I use to write new sections is almost bare.

* * *

><p><strong>20 [ Black | checkers, cinnamon, burnt sugar ]<strong>

He's not really that surprised to find Barbara in his kitchen, although of course he has to point out that the lift doesn't work.

"Now it does." She doesn't turn to look at him, her whole attention to his pantry. "Wally, this is a mess."

Wally frowns. He might not be exactly OCD when it comes to order, but he's always thought that his place is tidier than your average young-adult-male-living-alone.

"There's nothing remotely _healthy_ here," Barbara says, finally looking up at him. "I feel I'm collecting extra pounds just by watching it."

It's a joke, it's quite clear looking at her face, but for some reason it stings more than it should. He sighs heavily. "What are you doing here, Oracle?"

And okay, maybe calling her that is a mistake, but he's tired despite being on leave time from the League - or maybe _because _of said leave time, what with it being forced and all. He is painfully aware of his insecurities, of the fact that his mind needs too little to have him questioning his self-worth. Thinking all day long of arguments against and on favor is both tiring and depressing, especially when the best he can come up with at the moment is _they'll turn Lord-y without you_.

"I have the reports you asked for," she answers after a small pause, and for the first time Wally notices the documents on his kitchen's table. _Shit_, he thinks at Barbara's speculative frown. Way to go, Wally, make even more people worry. Still, he's too exhausted to really care.

"I just had a really, really long day and would like to be left alone." And the thing is, he's telling the truth. For some reason the world around him has been losing its luster, and even visiting the orphanage hasn't been the balm on his soul it once was.

Barbara looks at him, a long and hard stare that seems to reach deep inside of him, and although she seems about to say something she doesn't, choosing instead to nod and move to the door.

Kara is standing there when Barbara pulls it open, right hand poised to knock and left hand clutching a brown paper bag. The look of surprise on both their faces is comical, although Wally has to admit that he should have known better than to leave a chuckle escape him, as two pair of eyes zero in on him in a way that spells trouble.

"So I guess you wanted me out of the way -"

"What is she doing here? Wait, what?"

At Kara's last word they look at each other, apparently realizing they sound like jealous girlfriends. It would be funny if it weren't -

No, scratch that, it _is_ funny.

Wally is on the floor, literally ROFLOLing, hysterically so, for the next minutes.

"I think he just lost it," he hears Kara say, feels while she pokes his ribs with her foot.

"Yeah, that would imply he somewhat _had it_, which I strongly doubt," Barbara answers from a different room, he thinks, and for some reason it makes another load of giggles burst out of his chest.

Eventually he's sprawled on his back, gulping down air while his ribs ache in a way that makes him feel better than he has in ages.

It is only later, when he's picking what's left of half a dozen cinnamon rolls from his shirt, Kara frowning at him with disgust from her side of the coffee table while Barbara tries to clean all residual stickiness from the black checkers that he realizes.

He can imagine himself doing this with their mentors.

It wouldn't be easy to convince Batman, and Supes would be the one doing the cleaning while Bats frowns (there wouldn't be outward disgust from his part, if only because he keeps a better control on his reactions), but he knows that he would be able to have them sit and play board games with him. Strictly strategy ones, yes, and only while suited up, and only if in the Tower because those two never come to his apartment.

Aaaand now he's imagining himself at Wayne's Manor, sitting across Clark while Bruce analyzes both the movements they make and the ones they don't. They'd both lose to Bruce, hands down, but he's not sure what the result would be in a wit match between himself and the Man of Steel. Whoever wins, Clark would undoubtedly be civilized about it. He would also probably be surprised about the Flash not being in the dark where it came to tactic and stratagem.

Bruce, not so much.

"Why do people like me?" he asks later, conversationally, while rinsing the mugs. He doesn't look at them, but he doesn't need to, to know they are baffled by his question.

"Because you're a likable guy? I don't know, I sometimes wonder why _I_ do like you," Kara says, and _then_ he turns around, if only for a moment, to stick out his tongue at her.

They leave shortly after that, chatting amiably, not before each of them extracts a promise from him. To call them, to get together again next week. He says yes, yes, waves them goodbye, and closes the door as soon as they are out of sight.

There's a theory he needs to prove. He's still too tired, but the way his mind is going in circles there's no way he'll be able to sleep any time soon. So he dons his suit and runs runs runs. It is late, but given that he's not allowed to fulfill half of his responsibilities, he figures he has the time for this.

* * *

><p><strong>21 [ Blue | pier, whale, electricity ]<strong>

He slows down a little. More than just a little, actually - but compared to what he has to slow down for others it is nothing, relatively speaking. He forces himself to count down the seconds, one, two, three, four. Then a blur flies by him, a sonic boom signaling the barrier of sound has been broken, and he smiles while allowing the salt water to drench him, not even trying to avoid the minor waves Superman's wake has raised. It is not morning anymore, as they have passed enough time zones to tread into early afternoon instead, and they will soon watch the sky darken as their trajectory progresses. They are not running today, not competing but simply sharing this thing the two of them have in common.

It takes him not long to reach Superman, and then they both reduce their speed and spend a good half hour lazily circling around a pod of pilot whales. By the time they catch their pace again the sky is a mix of navy and gray, and distant thunder can be heard from the distance.

"I think we have to go back," Superman says over the comm and then, when Flash fails to reply and keeps going, "or move our path a bit to the South."

"Have you ever been in the middle of a storm?"

_One like this_, he doesn't need to explain.

He can see it in the way Supes' whole focus moves to the incoming tempest, can hear it in the silence that stretches as no answer comes. It is all the permission he needs, the knowledge that Superman is intrigued. Even as fast as Flash is, if the other superhero wants to stop him he likely can. The smallest trip would make surface tension fail, giving the Man of Steel enough time to grab him and take him to the closest shore.

But he's not going to stop him, Flash knows, so he grins fiercely and taps on the Speed Force, far enough from his fastest so he won't rush across the angry beast without getting even wet. Lightning and thunder overwhelm his senses, crashing waves and the smell of salt, foam and water mist. He can't hear a thing other than the crashing water, not even his own yells and howls.

It is _freedom_, and it pulses through his body, and he feels _alive_.


End file.
